Blind Belief
by Garmonbozia
Summary: A few days after New Year's Eve, and Sherlock is more than aware that Irene is alive. But that means he must have missed something that night at the morgue. When you think you already know the answer, you don't see the evidence against it. - Now a two-shot. Companion story to 'Please Switch Off All Mobile Phones', but should read okay.
1. Chapter 1

Thursday, mid-morning, and it's a fine clear day for curtain twitching. Not me, you understand. No, John's the one indulging in this quintessentially British form of voyeurism, and rather good at it he is too. Sitting at an oblique angle so the glare on the window hides him, with the fullest view down the street in the direction of the Tube station. Well, I suppose if one _must_ sit and gawp slack-jawed at the neighbours, one had better do it well.

"Have you _seen_ this?" he sighs out, as if no human man nor woman either should ever have to see what he now peers at. Another typical behaviour; trying to draw in outside parties, in particular those who are not currently associated and _in particular_ those who do not wish to be.

I'd look, if only to humour him, but I saw this coming weeks ago. A TAU from the Met just happened to take weeks to arrive, and it's only this morning they've seen fit to get the whole street staring over at the home of a man who is quite mad and completely harmless.

The man in question is Polish, sixty-two years old and believes the British Government intend to deport him. His original plan for when they came for him was to bring whatever police or officials showed up for one last cup of jolly old English tea, and then poison them. So as long as none of those gentlemen over there with the state-sanctioned firearms stop for a cuppa, they'll be alright. But to this end the elderly Pole has been extracting ricin from castor seeds, which have to be imported and so, naturally, they believe he's a terrorist rather than a wretchedly deluded schizophrenic in need of psychiatric attention and possible hospitalization for his own protection.

Then again, it's hard to call him paranoid; we heard them kick the door in from over here.

I'd look, for John's sake, but he's been living there six months now. If you'd asked me about this, I would have said it had already happened. It's all a bit sad, really, a little bit tawdry.

There's someone knocking at the front door. My flatmate is tragically engrossed in the spectacle down the street and doesn't hear it. Doesn't hear the soft skim of good, indoor shoes on the stair carpet, and the tell-tale little clicks, as the metal point of some extended object, like a cane or stick except it's not, is brought resolutely along where'er those shoes should go, for this is Brittania, land of hope and glory, sudden showers of rain and life lived in the iron maiden of dated and increasingly ridiculous tradition. I put the door on the latch and then walk away from it as quickly as possible.

"Morning, Mycroft," I call when it swings. My voice is the first John knows of it, and he looks up like he's been caught at something. I'm sorry for him. But if one wants the upper hand, one has to plan for it. I couldn't have warned him without tipping Mycroft off.

"Closer to afternoon, really," Mycroft says. "Don't you ever get dressed?"

Something's wrong. Mycroft just made a joke. It doesn't sound like it; it sounds like disgust or some cheap little put-down, like everyday Mycroft sniping, and yes, he still mumbles it and yes, it's still that supercilious little voice. But something… Trust me; I know him better than you do, and he just made a joke. Something is wrong, and it goes deeper than would-be poisoners or me in my dressing gown.

"Tea?" I say to him, not thinking of castor seeds at all, I promise…

"No, thank you."

"Then why _are_ you here?"

He cuts his eyes at the window. But he does it a moment too late. He says, "We were in the area…" and sounds right, trails off like the man of mystery he sometimes pretends to be, but I don't believe him. That's beneath him, that across the street. For one, it's a police operation, nothing to do with the sort of circles Mycroft spins and for another, it's ridiculous. It's in his eyes; he knows that. It pains him to even pretend he's involved in that. But he's doing it anyway.

If you don't understand, I can't explain it to you, but something is very, very wrong.

"And what? You just thought you'd stick your head in, say hello, pass comment?"

He swallows on a choking throat, forces that smug facial exercise he passes off as a smile, "Along those lines."

"Well, that's all done, check-check-and-check, mission accomplished. Goodbye, Mycroft."

In the corner of my eye I can just see John's head flipping back and forth, looking between us, wondering what he's missed. He doesn't understand it. Even Mycroft's eyes go wide, but he probably just believed he was doing a better job of covering up. He wasn't. His main mistake was in coming here at all. It just doesn't fit, it doesn't make sense.

He's searching me, in surreptitious little glances. He knows there's no chance of a civil conversation or, to put in terms Mycroft himself would understand, an opportunity to manipulate me. He wanted something from me and now he's trying to find it quickly. Read those glances, the furtive way his eyes move, how now, after ignoring him since he came through the door, he looks to John for help which is not forthcoming, read all those glances and there is one question Mycroft came here to have answered.

That question is _Does he know_?

And now the only question I have in my mind is what on earth I'm supposed to know by now.

He hasn't moved. And I've said goodbye, so in the interest of his unimpeachable British manners he really ought to have by now. Just as a little extra push, a hint for him to catch himself, I raise my hand and wave.

Huffing and terse and wordless, and with one last lingering glare at me and my body language, he flounces out with the umbrella tucked under his arm.

A few seconds pass. I am stuck on that same, all-important question. For John, it's time for the morning's excitement and this most recent confusion to settle. With a sip of tea to clear his throat, he gets his voice back. "That was a bit harsh, wasn't it?"

"What does he know? What does he know?"

I was asking myself, really, given that's where I'm most likely to get a sensible answer, but John replies anyway, "Everything. He's Mycroft."

"He wasn't in the area," I explain. "Even if he was, he wouldn't come here without an ulterior motive anyway. He knows something and he wanted to find out if I knew it too."

"Knows something about what?"

"If I knew that, I'd have let him stay and tortured him for a while." Just long enough passes before John laughs so I know he's not laughing at what I said. "What? What's funny?"

He's standing up, for the first in an hour. Leans back to get a last look out the window before wandering past me with his almost-empty mug in hand. "You really give him _zero_ credit…"

"Credit? Credit for what?"

"Shall I tell you-" John says, and he's _enjoying_ this, taking some sick pleasure in knowing something I don't, that gleeful, childish look on his face, it's really an awful expression, most unattractive, I think I might have found the source of all the storm-tossed wrecks of his so-called relationships, "-What Mycroft's ulterior motive was in coming here? Shall I? Would you like to kn-?"

"Get on with it."

"He's worried about you."

"What? Me? What are you talking about?"

"Last time he saw you was Christmas Eve, wasn't it?" Oh. Adler. Identifying the body and then the… _the cigarette_. Damn, it was a trap. Oh, I can just imagine it, their unbearable concern, as though that one inconsequential (and really very necessary) transgression was the first step on an inescapable spiral… The fools. The cigarette.

That would be fine. Everything could end here and yes, maybe there'd be time for a quick arrest or two around some nearby doss houses (just to keep big brother on his toes, of course). Except that John is having his moment. His spotlight. He can't just say enough and let life go on, oh no. Has to get his money's worth out of this…

He continues, "He's worried. You know Adler's alive, but he doesn't."

"Or he _does_ and he wanted to know if I do. Or he knows… something else… something _else_…" And now I'm with the question again, telling myself to think and think harder. Where are the gaps? What _don't_ I know that might have given Mycroft the advantage? Where are the holes amongst the known facts? "_Oh_… Oh, of course…"

"Sherlock?" John looks confused again. And this time there's disappointment in it too, that he might have wasted his moment of glory being wrong. He might have told me off for not trusting my brother and might have attributed sentiment, only to find him untrustworthy and cold. "Sherlock, 'of course', what?"

Can't answer him. On the phone. Ringing. Pick _up_, why do people never pick up quickly when you need them to? If I'm right, Mycroft is probably ringing this number already and I don't need the aggravation of thinking he got there first and – "Hello?"

"Lestrade, glad I caught you, fine morning, isn't it, couldn't send over the file on the Adler murder, could you, thanks, waiting for that, bye now-"

"_Hold on_."

Damn. "Yes? Problem?"

"What do you need the file on the Adler murder for?"

"Just giving the evidence another going over, check there's nothing been missed. Nothing important."

"Well, then, it hardly matters."

"Alright then, you've got me, I'll tell you everything; something's come up, could break the whole thing open. And you could add that gruesome homicide onto your growing pile of cleared cases you had no help with whatsoever."

"Ooh," John hisses, apparently addressing the kettle. "_Emotional blackmail_… Must be good."

And Lestrade is being no more helpful and much more obvious; "Well, then," he says, in precisely the same tone he used before, "bring this new clue over and we'll chat."

He's no use to me. Out there across London, in a glassed-off office at Scotland Yard he'd never have if it wasn't for me, behind a messy desk, Detective Inspector Lestrade is smiling to himself, just the same way John was only minutes ago. Thinking he's won, thinking he's gotten one over on me. They're all in the same little smiling club. They're all out to get me. I _swear_ I'm not thinking about castor beans.

In the interests of candid exchange, I ask him, "Did Mycroft put you up to this?" The pause while he figures out what to say is all I need. I hang up, run through to the bedroom to get dressed. I'm back and getting my coat before John's finished stirring his tea.

"Where are you going?" he says, with distaste, as if all my rushing about is irrational and really rather unnecessary. I get tired of that look on people's faces, you know. Especially when, second-by-second, I am beginning to feel this really might be very necessary after all. Don't ask me for details, I don't have any details yet. All I have is the conspiracy of events from the last ten minutes or so, leading me to believe that there's something very wrong of which I should already be aware. Bringing back the memory of something I thought I saw, something I almost dismissed as paranoia; a face in the street as that car took John away on New Year's Eve. The reason I followed…

I should have seen before now that something was wrong.

He's only asking the question to be snide, so I'm not answering it. Anyway, no time; I'm in a race now.

I make it through the door of the morgue just as the phone on the wall is ringing. Just as Molly is crossing to it, hand extended, reaching for the receiver, and even from across the room my hand extends as though to stop her. "Don't answer that!"

She yelps and jumps back from it. Looking into the hall behind me, peering out the windows for snipers, to the vents for gas, to the phone for any extra wires, all really very clever of her and any other day I would praise such innovative and quick thinking but the fact is, I'm a bit out of breath just now.

Bloody traffic. I'm usually _much_ faster than Lestrade's conscience, but all the lights were against us in the cab. Even the bloody traffic lights are out to get me. And this time I'm really not thinking of poison because poison wouldn't do any good. Now a _virus_…

But the phone is still ringing, and now Molly is glaring across at me for an explanation.

"Well," I tell her, as quickly as oxygen will allow, answer it if you must, but tell him you're up to your elbows in chest cavity and you'll have to call him back."

She glares at me, mutters something like 'For God's sake', and picks up. She doesn't say what I told her to say. She says a friendly hello to the man from the Met, listens to his side of the story and then answers, "I'll be sure to bear that in mind. Thank you." _Thank you_. Thanks him. She _thanks_ him. What chance do I have of ever getting things done in this life when she listens to him and then _thanks_ him?

Then turns back to me, just managing to seat myself by this stage, folds her arms and begins, "So, why should I let you see the post mortem on Irene Adler?"

Because you were here that night and whether the cigarette was a trap or not you saw me take it. "Please, Molly, it's important."

"That's not what Lestrade said. As a matter of fact, he said the opposite."

"To keep it from me."

"Yes."

"Mycroft told him to. Please tell me that doesn't strike you as a good thing."

And thankfully, graciously, she lets me see her falter over that, just so I don't slide totally into utter despair. But then she shakes it off, forces herself to be hard and cool. With a twitchy little shrug, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Those files are confidential and anyway, they're put in storage once the case is closed."

"_Closed_?" Don't believe it. Not a millisecond. "Well, who killed her then?"

"That would be a question for the police, wouldn't it?" God help us all, she's trying to do sarcasm. For the second time this morning I'm struck by just how ill-suited these attitudes are to my friends and colleagues. All you have to do is listen to that nervous little giggle in her voice to know she doesn't even like doing it. So why, why would she be wilfully cruel to me when-

Ah.

"This is about Christmas, isn't it? I apologized for that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she flaps, turning her back, walking away from me, and as if all this wasn't enough of a show, blushing from her collar to the roots of her hair.

"This is about Christmas."

She turns. She shouldn't; she is patently upset. It gives the whole game away. "Well," she says, trying to sound cold and disgusted and failing at both, "why should _anybody_ be kind to you? Why, when every word that comes out of your mouth is some sort of insult?"

"It is traditional, socially-acceptable, even expected, to rib somebody who has just gotten into a new relationship, especially if it appears to be serious and-"

"There's a _line_!" she balks, stunned. If she would have let me finish, there would be no need for such a clear admission of the feelings that weaken her. That I am uncomfortable watching it is inconsequential, but later it will hurt her to have said that aloud, to have made the memory concrete. Before it can burn her too deeply I finish what I was saying.

"And I crossed it. But only because I never dreamt it could mean anybody in the room." More cries and recriminations die on her lips. The silence leaves her hanging there, empty. I turn on the stool, looking away from her. As public as the hospital may be, this is a moment she should have had privately, and something I should only have told her under carefully controlled circumstances. We should have had this conversation a week ago when her anger was still immediate and she was better equipped to deal with it. But here is the day and here we stand and it's out now.

"You mean it never once occurred to you that I-?" And there she has to stop. I've never been more grateful to her. And considering some of the awful, awful moments I've had in this morgue down the years, and the stash of Kit Kats she keeps in her locker, that's actually rather momentous.

To Molly, I only shake my head. But for the information of anyone who's interested, and by that I mean interested in why they hold the idiotic delusions that keep them quietly happy all day, just look at her, would you? Listen to her for five minutes. She spends her days poking around inside corpses and searching out death and yet _look at her_. In all the chaos of my days, out of all of them, she is the single most normal, _unspoiled_ person I have the honour of knowing. And now, for just a moment, look away from that and look at me.

Got it? Are we there yet? Good, yes, thank you. _Finally…_

But to Molly, I only shake my head and hope she believes me without further explanation. She stands there a while longer, composing herself. Then shakes herself.

There's something of an edge, a sort of vengeance I suppose I owe her, when she asks me, "Who was she? Adler, I mean."

"Someone deceitful and incredibly manipulative." I thought that was a good answer. Molly, at a glance, finds it ironically manipulative. I didn't mean it to be, but now I have to find some way to turn it to my advantage. I have to manipulate her so she won't think I'm manipulating her. Honestly… what chance do I have, when people have to make everything so complicated? So I won't complicate things. Here, this juncture, I'll tell her the truth; "That's why I need to see the post-mortem."

And that is just enough information, and in just the right context, that she goes to fetch it out of storage. Or 'the filing cabinet' as it's known when we're not telling each other porkies.

"I don't see why," she says, still with the half-hearted intention to make me suffer. "You saw just about all there was to see. And it was pretty plain what killed her." That trembling laugh again, right on the end; she can't help herself when she's joking. Funny, isn't it, how things apply differently in different situations. Mycroft makes a joke and the sky is falling. Molly makes a joke, and can't help but laugh at herself, and the sky is once more intact. In a manila cover, she puts the file down at my elbow. I sit only looking at it for a moment. Molly says, with a hint of anxiety, "Don't tell Lestrade."

I sigh; her voice has brought me out of reverie, and I start to flip back the cover. Explaining a basic fact to her helps steady me too; "Wouldn't bother him. He only did it to annoy me. And, naturally, because he's terrified of Mycroft. Seems to think my brother knows where all the missiles are kept, that his home could become a target. I keep telling him, Mycroft doesn't even work for the MOD… But then again, people never do pay attention when they already believe."

That's a lesson I learned the hard way. Standing over a body on a slab and already believing.

It's the pictures I'm interested in. Molly wasn't quite correct when she said I'd seen 'all there was to see'. I never had the body turned over. And that's not just me being flippant. As I go through the photographs, I see it coming; it has slid out a little, like a card from the pack, with a detail that shouldn't be there. I can already see it. But I make a point of going through the rest and looking at them, not because there's anything to see but because it takes just that little longer, because as unfamiliar with it as I may be, ignorance really is bliss. Until I get to that detail and thoroughly inspect it, I know nothing. Already I can feel myself missing that feeling, longing to have it back again.

You see, the woman in question was absolutely unblemished, head to foot. I say this not out of admiration, but because the offending photograph shows her upper back… No. No, it shows the corpse's upper back. And the corpse's upper back has a tattoo. Two lines of Chinese dropping vertically from the shoulder. And this is the photograph I put down on top of the pile and sit back from.

Molly, sounding like it's personally interest more than anything, says, "Do you know what it says?" _Into these tiger hills I venture_, but that's beside the point. It's hard to answer her when it's beside the point. "Is… Is this what you were looking for?" she asks, uncertainly. "Does this help?" No, but again, it's hard to tell Molly that, of all people.

"It's just something I should have known," I tell her. Then I take a moment before I stand up, waiting until I'm absolutely sure I'll be able to walk away.

"Is this something you need to investigate?" she breezes, smiling too brightly, trying too hard.

I lie to her, because it's kinder. I tell her, "Yes."

* * *

[A/N - my first attempt at a mature (non-junkie) Sherlock voice, so apologies for any inconsistencies. I'm still getting to know my way around the mind palace.]


	2. Chapter 2

I lied to Molly. Told her the mystery of the ersatz Adler had to be investigated. It doesn't. It makes almost perfect sense.

The name of the woman on the slab, a piece of information I have yet to share with anyone, is Danielle Mies. In the past, she and I have been acquainted. But of late we've lost touch, chiefly due to the fact that she is _much better_ acquainted with one James Moriarty. The situation is what I believe the social media types refer to as 'complicated'.

Was. The situation _was_ that way. Obviously it isn't anymore. Danielle's dead, after all, and all complexity died with her.

Anyway, the facts of the case are perfectly clear. Adler is operating under Moriarty's good auspices. When it became necessary that she die, a body was required. Being a viable physical match, by body form, skin tone, hair type, etcetera, the privilege was bestowed upon Danielle. I'm sure she's grateful.

The only question is why.

And I know what you're thinking; that I've already answered that. A body was required. Well done. I understand precisely where you're coming from. That's very reasonable of you, very logical, cold, scientifically minded. You are, however, forgetting that those are all the things Moriarty is not. Look at it in its proper context. A psychopath, utterly deranged, so removed from life as you know it. It's not sentiment exactly, nothing to do with human emotion, but it's not to be ignored either.

They were close. She was working alongside him before I ever found myself in this business. Long years, too much history, and then to have her so brutally dispatched… Perhaps the question isn't _why_, but _what happened_? What made all that time-more-good-than-bad disappear? It's not an important question. It helps nobody and explains nothing of any real worth or interest. There's no point giving any energy over to answering it, nor is there any real means to investigate it, with one party dead and one gone to ground.

So why, then, does it irritate me so? If everything about it is so impossible and unimportant, why won't it leave me alone? Danielle and I decided, a long time ago, that we owed each other nothing. It probably wasn't true at the time. Nevertheless, we wiped out each other's debts and walked away.

And yet I am standing at the door of her apartment with my Oyster card jammed in the lock. Now, this is not an unreasonable action. This was her private residence. If there should be any clue to the answer, I would find it here. More likely and more useful, this place could well contain everything I need to track down Moriarty himself. It would surprise me more, actually, if I found absolutely nothing of the sort.

John believes I've stopped looking. Mycroft too, though it's always hard to tell what he believes and doesn't. It's easier for them all to think I've walked away from that too, like any other case solved or unsolved, like any other thing which is over. Easier for my brother, who has his own battles to fight, and easier for John who still remembers the night of the pool in detail too vivid to be bearable. He believes, also, that I don't know this. I let him believe. I lie, essentially, the way I lied to Molly. None of them have even heard the name Danielle Mies. I always lie. And while I'm stuck forcing the door with nothing else to think about, I can't escape this strange new realization, how many lies I tell, and to who, and with what little merit sometimes…

Of course, the logic is always sound. Everything within its context, everything with a purpose. Take this little break-in, for instance. It is, as I have already expanded upon, perfectly reasonable. But the very act of forcing entry into the home of one of the world's most high-profile thieves… There is some small, sentimental satisfaction in that. It doesn't take anything away from the sense. As a matter of fact, it heightens it. Turns the simple act into something with a pleasing secondary meaning.

The latch pops just at the moment where harmless mawkishness pushes all that awkward business about lying to one side. I'm in a much more stable place as I step inside and shut the door behind me.

The flat is always the same. It's more than eight years since I was first here, more than one since I visited last. But nothing ever really changes. Little things. Different postcards around the mirror. Different notes on the fridge. Different clutter on the bookshelves. There are a few extra differences this time; the feeding bowl and litter tray for her succession of cats are both empty and clean, abandoned in the middle of the kitchen. The only things left in the fridge are vodka and chocolate.

But that's all. The absence of a cat or any food, these are the only testimony to her death. The smell of her perfume hasn't faded, or the smell of cigarette smoke. And there's no sign of any bloodstains that weren't here before; she must have been murdered elsewhere.

For a while, I only go from room to room. There's a curious disturbance. Unless you know well the feeling one gets at scenes of crime, in the private places of the late departed, I can't explain it. That's not here. That settled feeling, as when returning from holiday, that's not here. I pause for a moment at the base of the spiral staircase. Above there's a small mezzanine, which bears a queen-sized bed and no room for anything more. I had thought it unimportant. Wasn't going to go up there.

In a moment, I'll begin the investigation proper. In a moment. I'm not sure what it is I'm fighting against, as I stand there. Probably just the nicotine craving, as brought on by the scent of smoke. That's all, probably.

But there's something else, isn't there? A sensation like electricity. When a television is on mute, it makes a sound beyond true hearing, but we are still aware of it. It's coming from above me. So I turn onto the stairwell. Wasn't going to go up there. But I suppose I have no choice; it's where the sound is coming from, after all. There should be no sound in a dead woman's flat. I can't ignore it. I ascend, stopping every few steps to let the ring of my shoes on the metal stairs fade out. The higher I climb, it's not just a sensation any longer, but a sound. Metallic like a speaker, thumping like a heartbeat. It's familiar, but I can't place it; that's what stops me calling out. What makes me soften my steps. This last is ridiculous, of course; if anybody was here, they've had ample time to become aware of me and plan an attack. But I do it, nonetheless.

Then I crest the top of the stairs. Right away, I see it. Dumped in the mess of an unmade bed, a nest of sheets and blankets and embroidered throws, it is glowing. An MP3 player, still blaring out through the headphones. Metallic like speakers, and bass like a heartbeat. Still glowing. I lean over it, and the battery is still almost full. Mies has been dead for over a week, hasn't she?

You can still see the shape of her in the covers. That would settle, as they cooled and stiffened. They're still warm. Warm, and thrown conspicuously to one side. And where the base of the divan is slightly exposed, I can just make out the edge of a metal handle, glinting. There's a drawer, not quite closed. I will depend on your human hearts allowing you to imagine what it is to pull it out. Needless to say, it requires a moment's entirely necessary hesitation, calculating the risks. Screwing up the courage… And the strength, too; the drawer is heavy.

It's not four inches out when I see just why it's so heavy. There's only a mess of tangled black hair and the hint of a pale forehead, but that's enough. I half suspected, yes, but that doesn't keep me from stepping back, letting go of everything for just a moment. I stand against the balustrade, only looking, as long white fingers creep up on either side and hook over the edge of the mattress. The urge to kick the drawer back in and crush those fingers the way they deserve to be crushed is irrational, but no less powerful for that.

Then, a muffled voice from within; "Sherlock, it is _rank_ in here. Please help."

I help. Crouch down and brace against the bed to ease the drawer out a little further. Inch by inch, a familiar face appears. One that was supposed to have been caved in with a blunt object, not two minutes ago… Danielle. Alive and at home. Before I came in, she was lying in bed listening to music. As soon as she can free her head, I stop pulling and she eases out, dressed as she slept in only an oversized t-shirt. Sits on the edge of the bed and _she_ asks_ me_, "The _hell_ are you doing here?"

"Investigating your murder. And feeling a bit cheated."

Fine brow furrowing up in anger, one bare leg stretches out and kicks me at the knee. "I thought you were somebody else. You gave me a bloody heart attack."

It's really too stupid an idea to articulate, but she could always make me say ridiculous things; "That would be a new one, if _I_ turned out to be the murderer." She looks away from me, laughing. Then, with obsessive little strokes, tries to rid herself of some mess at the back of her head, something she's sure she brought up from the drawer. I can readily believe that she herself has never curled in that stale box before. It's only ever lovers or inconveniences she's had to hide. Her shock, too, makes sense; it _is_ foul in there. I sit down next to her, turn her head and check over the offending spot. "I thought you were dead, Danielle. That's what I'm doing here."

"If anybody asks, I'm deader than disco." I push her hair over her shoulder, so she'll know I'm done. She turns around again, looking at me with a face so lucid and innocent I could almost believe in it, if I didn't know her. "You're looking at me," she says, "like I owe you an explanation. I don't. I've already saved your pretty pelt, my love, I don't owe you bugger all…"

She says it all with such resignation, such an awful hard edge, pity swells in me before I even know what there is to pity. "Well, now I really am curious," and she knows from that that I'm not going anywhere until I get something from her.

Sighing, Danielle leans forward and hooks some underwear down off the balustrade. "Put the kettle on. I'll be right down when my skin stops creeping."

It does me no harm to go about it, to do as she asks. Except, the last time we saw each other, we talked about coffee. I can't help but remember that. It gets to me a little. We discussed the mutually exclusive paths we'd found ourselves on, agreed we wouldn't see each other again, unless she ended up on the other side of one of my cases and even then she would be treated like any other criminal. And Danielle said to me, "You'll miss the stupid jokes. Can't we just go for coffee, sometimes?"

I replied, "And just tell jokes and drink coffee?"

She said, "Take care of yourself," and walked away.

So while the kettle boils, rather than think about that, I lean back in the corner of the worktops and shout up to her, "So you're not dead and Irene Adler's not dead-"

"She's a nobody. Uninvolved. We put the tattoo on with an airbrush." That's easier to take. It's no different to any other possibility, but somehow I believe it. Maybe because she speaks it like a true murderer, one who did what had to be done and feels no remorse. From watching Danielle's back, I turn around when she lifts off the t-shirt. "I suppose you've got it all figured, but here it is. Adler needed to be dead. I was earmarked for corpse-duty. In order to protect myself, I provided a suitable alternative."

"And naturally you didn't tell Moriarty."

There's a pause. Too much of one. Putatively it's because she's bundled inside a new top as she wriggles into it. But when she answers, "You know I can't talk to you about him."

I know she believes that. I hate her for it. Part of the reason we can't just tell jokes and drink coffee sometimes. Since we were friends, the only time she ever really lied to me was when she said that was for my own good; there's only one person she protects and he's not in the room right now.

"I'll rephrase. Naturally you'd rather I didn't mention your resurrection to anybody."

She shrugs. Steps into a pair of furry slippers and leans over the rail before she descends. "You wouldn't anyway. It doesn't serve you or anyone you know. And it annoyed you when you thought I was dead, so you wouldn't want to see it happen for real, would you?" Not a plea, not emotional blackmail. She's just stating that. Then comes down to me and starts putting out the coffee.

"Are you _determined_ to give no real answers, today?"

"Depends _entirely_ on the questions, Sherlock." Smiling. These are old games. We've played as friends and played as enemies and the games are always the same. My challenge is to get a scrap of truth from her, of reality even. Hers is to manipulate me into forgetting mine.

"Try this one. What did you mean when you said you'd already 'saved my pelt'?"

"I said '_pretty_ pelt'. Don't do yourself down, gorgeous." She won't make eye contact. I dragged her out of a drawer when she was meant to be dead and she looked me in the eye. Kicked me and looked me in the eye. And now she can't. Flicks little glances my way and as she moves from kitchen to couch her walk is customized to match her flirting words, but she doesn't really look at me. I follow, thinking it over. She can't look at me. Can't answer, really.

Can't talk to me about that.

"You helped me, somehow, and it was for that that Moriarty had you killed… As it were."

Danielle is not surprised by my conclusion. But I do get her eyes back. They are tired and dull and sick of fighting. She stares at me for a long, long time. Then goes back to her coffee and says quickly, "Sherlock, leave the country."

"What? Why?"

"I can get you ID. Take Watson with you. How does Australia sound? The criminal scene is rich and thriving, really exciting place to be a detective. I have a place there. You can have it. Not forever, even, just for long enough. Call it a holiday. Research trip. Call it whatever makes you feel good."

"Danielle, what are you talking about?"

It's a huge commitment, a lot of trust, for her to answer me. She's steeling herself. I wait, without rushing or pushing her, only waiting. "_I_ triggered Adler," she confesses. "Told her when to call. I don't know, maybe I missed something that was only for the geniuses in the room, but it looked a lot like you had no choice but to shoot the Semtex, am I right?"

"You got Moriarty to walk away," I say, just to have it out loud, to make the facts clear.

But Danielle can't hear me. Goes on, biting off every word in frustration, months of tension and buried emotion coming over on her voice, "Both of you swaggering on in there like bloody gladiators, both of you thinking you're the business, not going to need a plan B, no, no way, just wing it, I'm the smarter one, of course I'm going to win… Daft bastards. _Somebody_ had to be prepared for the worst and it wasn't going to be either of you, that was damned bloody certain and-"

"Danielle-"

"Don't say 'thank you'. I'll kill you where you sit if you thank me for this. Don't thank me. Just piss off to Nicaragua or something." Something swells up in her. Something snaps. "What if I can't do it next time?!"

"Then he's still coming for me."

"Oh, darling," and this said with a certain bitter jealousy, "He thinks_ only_ of you." Danielle snatches up a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table. Like any good hostess, she offers it first to me. She knows I've quit. I think that's why she does it. Passing up is difficult, but I manage it. She lights one and drags deeply, steadying her shaking hands. "I'm not sure I've got any plays left. I'm asking you to protect yourself, in case I can't."

But it's as I already said; Danielle doesn't protect me. I know that. There was a time when she did, and things were very good. But that was a while ago now. "Don't pretend I come into this."

"Forgive me for caring."

"You don't care."

"Christ, you moron… But then, I shouldn't call names at somebody with such low self-esteem." Can't make sense of that one, or not right away. In fact, the only thing it calls to mind, the only reference I can find, is my conversation with Molly earlier on, about what was said at Christmas, and why I felt like I could say it all.

All I can manage in response, "Well, I'm not going to Nicaragua."

Danielle stands up and goes to the door. Not making eye contact again. Looking at her feet, she opens the door and waits for me to go out through it. I set down my coffee, hardly touched, because we can't just drink coffee and tell stupid jokes. I find myself struggling for something to say, something that will make it better, convince her that she's safe and needn't fight so hard. 'Stay dead', is what I'm about to tell her.

But as I open my mouth to speak she lifts her eyes to mine. They're hard this time, on fire. Because we can't just have coffee, tell jokes. "Then I'll see you for the closing number," she says.

It's a promise, and a threat.

* * *

[A/N - I expanded this in response to reader questions and queries. Still practicing my Sherlock voice so still, please, please, bear with me. He's my little challenge at the moment. Jim comes so naturally to me and Lanky Legs here just doesn't... As ever, apologies for any inconsistencies]


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